Lawsuits and Loathing
by Cutie Pie 9335
Summary: Kyle has finally made it out of South Park - he has his dream job, an apartment, a boyfriend, a great life - everything he could have ever wanted. Until one particular Nazi comes crashing back into his life. Kyman.
1. Chapter 1

Lawsuits and Loathing

Chapter 1: _Shortcomings in All Things Grand_

Change can be a funny thing.

At times it seems like there's so much changing in your life, nothing to anchor yourself to, just a whirlwind of life and you flying, spiraling, capitulating to gravity yanking you away from solid ground. One second you're grounded in a tiny mountain town, hating every second of it, and the next you're graduating top of your class from law school and picking up everything to move again, flying through the air on a powerful gust of change to the west coast. You carefully organize every item of your life and pray nothing important gets caught up in the life tornado ripping through town this year, clutching the box labeled "childhood" dearly as you take your first step into your first apartment in L.A. that you aren't sharing with anyone, finally alone.

And the first thing you do? Shove that box into the back of your closet so you can go back to not changing again for several years.

Change certainly is a funny thing.

* * *

I open my eyes to see the dim stucco ceiling of my apartment, the orange glow of the street lamp outside casting faint shadows as dawn begins to overpower its sallow light. My alarm clock flashes 5:56AM at me in violent blue bursts – I still have four minutes. Four minutes before I have to get up and be Kyle Broflovski, assistant district attorney of Los Angeles County, pride of my parents, the one who made it out of South Park, the kid who escaped.

God, I hate Mondays.

Blowing out a slow breath, I rake a hand through my tousled curls. Lately I've been keeping my hair short, or at least more 'styled' than it's ever been in my life. It's apparently all the rage having the sides a bit shorter and then the slightly longer, purposefully 'accidental' bed-head on top.

I'm not sure I'll ever understand fads, but that's what I have Justin for.

 _Shit! Justin!_

I leap out of bed and practically into my closet, desperately pulling on one of my preplanned and hung outfits. It's the gray and pale pink pin stripe suit that I'm pretty sure my boss hates, but it's going to have to do today, fashion be damned.

A quick once-over in my bathroom mirror shows my usual tired face. I'm pretty sure that the bags under my eyes are stained into my skin. Without any time to shave, I look a bit ridiculous. I mean, you'd think a little stubble would make me look better, right? Wrong. I just look like a hobo.

 _Well, Justin seems to like it just fine,_ I think with a derisive snort.

The thought of him spurs me, as I grab my shoes, tie and suitcase all in one hand and take the stairs two at a time down to the ground floor. I can't believe I almost forgot. Guilt nudges my insides as I speed down the back streets and alleyways, weaving in an out of the backsides of stores and apartments.

When I finally reach Justin's place, it's 6:35AM – damn morning traffic. I pull up to the curb of his place – it's in this totally hipster part of town, littered with cafes that have all these artsy pots with succulents in them, so pretentious – and don't even bother to put my car in park.

"You're late," is the first thing he singsongs in his valley girl voice at me as he plops down into my Prius.

Justin is one of those exact hipster douchebags who normally would drive me nuts, with his perfect blonde highlighted hair and his tight jeans and braided leather necklace. His blue eyes light up despite my lateness as he leans forward, his nimble hand resting teasingly on my thigh.

Without hesitation, Justin captures my lips in a breath-stealing kiss, as if intent of inhaling the very air from my lungs, his hands roaming down my neck, and farther down my chest. He definitely drives me nuts, just in a different way.

"Sorry," I reply, breaking our little session short. His eyes tell me that we'll be finishing it anyway later tonight. "I forgot about your car being in the shop."

He pats my knee gently and winks at me, "Don't worry about it babe. I'm just glad you showed up at all."

We pull away from the curb in a comfortable silence and return to the sluggish flow of traffic, his hand tucked securely in mine.

So yeah, I'm gay. Not really surprising I guess, when I think about my life in the long run. I pretty much worked out my sexuality when I was like fourteen, largely and secretly thanks to Stan and his rapid growth spurt, i.e. his six-pack that haunted my dreams all through high school. What surprised me the most though was how I became a serial dater when I moved out to LA. Literally every night it was a new guy, some burly and some dainty – honestly, I think I was initially overwhelmed by the freedom to finally be me, away from my parents' constant questions about a potential wife and kids.

And with Justin, well he's not the brightest guy, that's certainly true.

I eye my boyfriend out of the corner of my eye, admiring his chiseled jaw, slight frame and defined clavicle peeking out from his muscle tee – he's certainly cute.

It's also easier having a boyfriend who never questions the infamous Kyle Broflovski Dating Manual. Essentially, it's just a smattering of tips and rules I've accumulated after, ahem, gaining some much needed experience. Like, no sharing apartment keys for example. Ever. That's been a particularly hard one for Justin, since I know he's moving toward us living together. And not like I'm entirely against being with him, but just, you know, strictly on my own terms at the pace that I dictate.

One of my personal favorites: we have to have three consecutive days somewhere in the week of no interaction. Which means that I get three whole days, 72 hours or more, back to back just for me. And which also means that the most time I can ever spend with any of significant other is four consecutive days. I know, it seems like a lot of weird, twisted mathematics I'm applying to romance, but it's the ultimate solution to the typical love problem. Time, and the rationing of it – it's honestly as simple as that.

Of course, Justin hates my favorite rule the most. But it keeps my apartment clean and my life balanced.

We pull up to Justin's work, a little bouge-y boutique where every piece of clothing makes no sense (like a leopard print fur vest with fringe at the bottom?) and costs a small fortune. Frankly, it looks like an insanely upscale secondhand shop. Of course, Justin says that even if I'm gay, I have the fashion sense of a hetero. I think he meant it as an insult.

"Well, here we are," I unlock the car for him to leave, but Justin just keeps beaming up at me.

"Really, thank you so much," Justin gushes. "I know we've only been seeing each other for a little while, and I know how you are about this kinda stuff, but thanks Kyle. It means a lot to me."

He leans in and presses a firm kiss on my lips, silencing whatever reply I might have given. Probably something along the lines of a muttered 'whatever'. With that, Justin hops out of the car and bounces off to his little shop, shooting these little glances back at me the whole way until he disappears inside the shop. Supposedly, he's one of the managers, but it's hard to imagine anyone taking orders from a human ball of sunshine.

Looking at the time shakes me out of my little reverie. Now I'm going to be late.

* * *

"You're late."

Trent Gabel, my boss and District Attorney, catches me on my way in the office, arching a disapproving grayed brow at me. He's this classic silver fox, way too good looking for being almost sixty years old but impatient enough to fit his age. He eyes my pink and gray pin stripe suit with even more disapproval, grunting softly to himself.

"Sorry, traffic."

I learned long ago that Mr. Gabel does not appreciate long-winded answers and hates tardiness. I bee-line form my desk, my boss still following me, and open my briefcase, pulling out the various case files I had put the finishing touches on last night. Mr. Gabel might hate my suits and sometimes it feels, even hate me, but I do damn good work as a lawyer.

"I was thinking we could go over the Benedict case –,"

"Not yet," Gabel cuts me short, leaning his hip on my wooden desk. "We'll get to it, but we have something bigger on our hands today."

He pauses for effect before saying, "Julio Salazar is getting charged."

I stop riffling through papers, "You mean the big heroine dealer? That's…surprising."

"It's fucking great news is what it is, Broflovski, and you're going to help me nail this guy to the wall." Gabel looks down at me with fire in his dark eyes. "Thing is, his lawyers just got here. They're East coast big shots."

He continues, "If you'd been here on time, I could have briefed you more before we have to go make nice."

Gabel always has to get a shot in, sometimes several, at me. It's sort of our thing, but today in particular it just grates on my nerves. I've finished sorting the rest of the files in my briefcase and grabbed the rest that seem prudent from my desk's filing cabinet, and even have an empty one, just for Salazar himself.

Today's gonna be a long day.

I follow my boss down the halls of the office and sure enough, there's a group of five men, all dressed to the nines and chatting quietly amongst each other. Three are older men, Gabel's age I would hazard a guess or younger, and one other is much older – possible eighty? God he looks more ancient the closer we're getting. He's likely the original firm owner, and maybe those are his sons? It's hard to tell.

And then the last guy.

He's not facing me, so I can't gauge too much, but from his shorter chestnut hair, I would have to guess that he's around the same age as me. Which never bodes well – I was a rare case of talent, and this fifth guy probably is too. Everyone needs a young and brilliant rookie.

But damn he has broad shoulders – they fill his dark blue suit perfectly. I mean, the guy is definitely cut, and that perfectly tailored suit does nothing to hide it and leaves everything to the imagination. Even his ass looks great in his slacks. And what's more surprising, he's taller than me and I stand at a good six feet, so he's what? Like six-four? Damn.

I pick at the little details as Gabel and I keep getting closer to the group down the hallway.

He's got a nice Rolex on his wrist, peeking out from where his hands rest in his pockets so he definitely makes money, so maybe he's been with this firm since graduating law? That'd be impressive. So he's probably late twenties, smart, tall, likely good-looking – at least from the back – and seems very at ease with some powerful men. And, I hear as I get closer, he has a very nice, deep laugh.

God, he's totally my type.

Part of my job, and why I'm so good at it, is the ability to read people. And this last guy? Man, I have him pegged and I haven't even seen his face.

"Gentlemen," Gabel uses his 'big man on campus' voice, smiling tightly. I haven't ever had the heart to tell him it always makes him look and sound constipated, but maybe that's what he's going for. The boss and the eldest man shake hands, exchanging empty pleasantries, but I'm glued to the young and brilliant rookie.

As he turns to face us, I feel my breath catch in my throat.

"Eric T. Cartman," he says with a smirk, extending his hand toward my boss.

Cartman. My brain is in overdrive and I'm pretty sure I momentarily forgot how to breathe – _what the hell is he doing here?!_

And he's thin, and he's smiling, and in a suit, and looking everywhere but me, and everything in the background is falling away. The earth is shifting under my feet and I feel like I could detach from the ground and start flying away into the atmosphere at any second.

And then I'm getting yanked back down to earth as Trent Gabel claps a heavy hand on my shoulder. _Earth to Kyle._

"This is my ADA, Kyle Broflovksi."

 _Calm, cool, collected, composed,_ I mentally chant.

"Nice to meet you," I smile and stretch my hand out politely.

Eric Cartman's hand closes around mine firmly, like a noose, and finally, he's looking right at me, or more like right into me, mischief dancing in his brown eyes. And I can see it, the Nazi who I'd grown up with, who I haven't seen in over nine years, buried faintly in the shape of his face.

"We've already met," Cartman looks over at Mr. Gabel, releasing me from his paralyzing eye contact momentarily. And then it's back on me again, his hand tightening around mine, as he says, "Actually, we go _way back_."

And all I can think is _God, I hate Mondays._


	2. Chapter 2

Lawsuits and Loathing

Chapter 2: _Art of Avoidance_

 _I look down at my sad, red solo cup of beer. Stan had switched me over after I'd had quite a few shots – his heart's in the right place, but I was really hoping to get fucked up tonight. I mean, it's my last night here, not that anyone knows that. Not that I'm going to tell anyone._

 _"Dude!" Kenny's voice snaps me out of my reverie as he plops down next to me on Stan's couch. I glance up at the party happening all around me. All of the furniture has been pushed to the walls or moved to the dining room, leaving a mostly bare living room, save for the couch, collapsible table in the center, and a little drink station near the kitchen, which basically is just a smattering of beers, liters of soda, and half-empty bottles of rum. Stan and Wendy are playing beer pong against Token and Bebe, Stan's arm draped seemingly casually, actually territorially, over his girlfriend's shoulders._

 _"You look like you're not even enjoying yourself," Kenny leans in close, his blue eyes glinting at me from under his shaggy bangs. The condensation from his beer drips a few cold droplets onto my jeans. This might be the last time I see him._

 _I shrug noncommittally and get up without saying anything, bee-lining for the back door._

What am I doing _, I think blankly._

 _My mind is all over the place yet nowhere. My head feels like everything is swimming, my fingers are numb._

I'm leaving South Park to go to a good college in California _, my conscious supplies helpfully._

 _The cold air from outside hits me like a brick wall of fucking ice, sobering me somewhat. The warm, stale air from inside the house dissipates around me as I close the door behind me. Only the faint light spilling onto the snow from the door's window pierces the darkness of the night. Everything looks sallow, sad, unmoving. I exhale from deep within my chest, my breath coming out in thick rolling puffs._

 _I breathe again, bending at my waist and putting my hands on my knees. I know I probably look I'm about to yak to any passerby or nosy party guests, but I just need a second. I just need to relax._

 _Stan's face, contorted with anger and sadness flashes like a light bulb in my mind's eye. Why even bother keeping my departure a secret? Because I'm scared I'll hurt him – or because I'm too scared to actually say goodbye? Or maybe because my burning desire to leave would somehow offend them? Stan, Kenny, Wendy – everyone is just planning on making a life here, going to community college maybe, getting a job and settling down. How do you tell people you love that you would rather die than live their dream?_

 _Simple: I can't, so I won't._

 _"Too much wine, Jew?"_

 _Cartman's taunting voice cuts through the silence, his feet crunching on the snow as his shoes slowly approach me. Black combat boots, seriously scuffed, left laces untied. Will this be all I remember of the fatass?_

 _"Nah, I'm good," I say without looking up._

 _"You look like you're about to fucking puke."_

 _"Then get out of the splash zone, fatass," I snap._

 _He laughs this dry, humorless laugh – and then I make the mistake of looking at him. He looks almost exactly the same as when we were kids – mousey brown hair peeking out from under a beanie, carrying quite a few extra pounds on his large frame (all hidden under an oversized letterman's jacket, of course), intense dark eyes that follow my every movement. God, it's like he's trapped in time. The resident fatass, bane of my existence and mortal enemy._

 _Normally, all I tend to feel is a mixture of contempt and disgust for him – but now, something new is stirring. Something terrifyingly soft, warm, something too dangerously close to affection._

 _"I'm going to miss you," stupid, drunk me blurts out. I add, softer, looking down at the snow again, "All of you guys."_

 _"Kahl, what the fuck –,"_

 _The look I give Cartman cuts him short, his eyes wide with shock. I'm probably on the verge of tears, I'm not sure._

 _All I remember is turning on my heel and running off into the night, running away to California for eight years and never once looking back._

* * *

I slam the door to my office hard enough that I'm surprised the frosted glass doesn't shatter. Normally, my office is the epitome of neat and organized – my one safe, reserved place in the chaos of my life and job – but now, it's ruined.

Eric Cartman leans against the edge of my antique, solid oak desk, his fingers tapping annoyingly against it. Probably scratching it, fucking asshole. And looking at me with those same dark eyes, only now set in a cut, almost chiseled face that only vaguely reminds me of my worst enemy.

 _Who the fuck is this guy?_

"Well well well, kike," Cartman gloats, arching an eyebrow at me, "long time no see."

I had all but dragged Cartman down the hall, away from my boss and the men who I assume are his bosses, and practically thrown him into my office. I'm not sure what the hell I was thinking – if I kill him here, it would be a little hard to explain. But with the way he keeps tapping my fucking desk, I'm considering it.

I turn my back to him and move to close the shades, vehemently, grounding out each word between clenched teeth.

"You'd better –," _Shink!_ "Not." _Shink! "_ Tell." _Shink!_ "Anyone."

I close the last shades particularly hard, leaving it to rattle helplessly against the window.

At this, Cartman crosses his arms – his well-defined arms, which his suit does little to hide – and gives me another dark look. He swallows and I watch his Adam's apple bob beneath his faintly stubbled chin and disappear under than tanned skin of his neck. Without the baby fat that used to constantly cling to his face, his jaw actually looks distinct, almost strong.

"What the hell are you talking about, Jew?" he deadpans, dropping the teasing edge to his voice.

I begin to pace in front of him, the area of my office being too small to properly pace, so really I probably look like a caged animal, taking three steps in one direction only to turn and take three steps the opposite way. But Cartman remains blessedly silent for a moment while I gather myself again. _Composure,_ I mentally chant, _calm, cool, collected._

"I need you to not tell anyone you saw me here," I say slowly, darting a few sidelong glances at him. Cartman seems unfazed. "Not Kenny, not Stan, not my parents. _No one_."

He seems to mull this over and I can practically hear those damn, evil cogs in his head turning. Finally, he smiles, like a cat who ate the canary. And I'm feeling like my feathers are about to be ruffled.

"So you really did try to disappear, you sneaky Jew," he says softly, looking up at the ceiling. Then he looks at me again and I find myself stopped, anchored to one spot on my rug. He smiles that fucking smile again, saying, "Look Kahl, I'm as excited as you are for this little reunion. But I'm not sure if I'll be able to contain my excitement… if I can keep it to _myself_."

A pit settles in my stomach. I could see this coming miles away. Cartman loves leverage, the fucking asshat.

"What do you want?" I snarl back, meeting his stare evenly.

Cartman pretends to think about it, tapping his chin in mock wonder. His other hand reaches behind him with surprising agility and grace, plucking one of my business cards from my desk and tucking it away in his suit jacket. If the pit in my stomach could drop any lower, it would fall out of my ass.

Without warning, he stands up, easily taller than me, and walks toward me. His eyes glint with that usual evil mischief that I was so accustomed to so long ago. He's in my face, almost nose to nose with me, still fucking smiling that stupid, shit-eating grin.

"I'll be in touch, Jew."

With that, he slips out of my office – the door closes behind him without making a sound.

* * *

I take my lunch early, and Mr. Gabel is too caught up in scrambling the jets against our newest enemies to notice. I collapse in my office chair and stare at my ham and cheese sandwich despondently. Cartman's appearance could very well jeopardize everything. Everything I've worked so hard to achieve for myself, all of the gaps and memories I tried to leave behind, forgotten in my abandoned past. Present-day Kyle Broflovski doesn't have old friends from high school, dropping in on him to see how he is. I'm sure Gabel is flabbergasted.

After biting into my sandwich, I chew thoughtfully and fish out my cell phone from my briefcase. I don't even have to look to dial the number – I know it by heart – but I refuse to save it in my phone as a contact.

It rings a couple times until finally, the line clicks – he picks up.

"Kyle, just in time for your tri-yearly phone call!" Kenny's bright voice calms my nerves.

"Ha-ha," I laugh sarcastically, and take another angry bite.

"So what do I owe this pleasure to?" Kenny chuckles back, a warm genuine sound. "Have you finally cracked and are gonna tell me where you are?"

After I first left South Park, I didn't keep in contact with anyone, not for a long time anyway. It wasn't until one night, five years after I had left, that Kenny called me – drunk off his ass – to tell me that his dad finally died. Drunk driving accident, go figure. Ever since, for the past three years, I had made it a point to call him, to check in occasionally. Kenny only knows some things about me, mostly partial truths – like, he knows I'm a lawyer. He knows I'm gay and kind of an asshole to all my partners. He knows about my parents not knowing where I am. He knows about my hot boss and my boring coworkers. As for the rest, I can only guess what he thinks he knows.

"Not this time, bud," I loose a gentle real laugh this time. "But you would never guess who I ran into today, at my job no less."

The line is silent, so I continue, "It's Cartman. I don't know how I happen to have the worst luck ever, but somehow I do."

"Maybe it's not luck," he replies cryptically, but then brightens again without warning. "But hey – guess who's getting married! Stan and Wendy, duh. And dude, you need to come to the wedding. No sending an anonymous congratulatory bouquet. Stan threw up when he saw you actually signed the one you sent to their engagement party."

I groan, running a hand through my hair, "Ken you know I can't go to that. First of all, Stan would beat the shit out of me, and second, I can't run the risk of running into my family. My mom would also beat the shit out of me."

Kenny sighs, and I know he's disappointed in me, but unlike the rest of my hometown, he actually understands the why behind how I left. I know he won't push the issue even though I'm sure he's dying to. It's like he always treads lightly with me during these phone calls, like he's scared I'll vanish again if he says something too forceful, or if he gets too close to the truth about me.

"How's the boyfriend? What was his name again – Chet?" Kenny steers the conversation away before it can get awkward.

I relax back into my office chair and release a breath I didn't realize I had been holding.

"Yeah, that ended a bit ago," I say, twirling a pen between my fingers.

"Already? Wow, and he seemed so into you," Kenny says. "But let me guess – you're already onto the next one, right?"

My silence says it all. Kenny laughs throatily over the phone and I hear it echo in the background. I wonder briefly where he is, what he's doing, what he looks like, if he still has those damn bangs.

"Okay, so tell me about this one," he continues.

"Well – don't judge – his name is Justin, and he works at this hipster boutique."

Ken's laugh fills the phone again and I smile in spite of myself, my earlier anger and frustrations of the morning melting away.

* * *

I take a big gulp of white wine and flop down on my plush couch, resting my glass against my scrunched up stomach. Finally home, back in my clean perfect apartment where I can just take my shoes off, loosen my tie, and drink box wine until I collapse in a drunken stupor.

Rinse and repeat.

Finally, I'm living the dream – the gay dream probably. Blessedly though, my 'boyfriend' is out with his other young hipster friends, getting drunk at a fancy little bar somewhere in West Hollywood, drinking apple-tinis and regurgitating the last thing he read on Yahoo! Celebrity News. Kenny's voice rings in my heads – _"manwhore"_. That's his affectionate nickname for me these days, and I mean, it's not like he's wrong. I sleep around, and I have a constantly revolving glass door of men in my life.

What can I say? None of them seem to have any staying power

I lean forward, set my once very full glass of wine on my chestnut coffee table, and opt instead to sift through my emails, hunching over my MacBook.

It's just the usual shit – advertisements that slip through the cracks of my spam blocker, those typical forwarded 'punny' emails I get from my coworker's neighbor's wife's mother, actually important work related stuff – but one email catches my eye.

 **[No Subject]**

 **From: nazijewhunter69**

I blink a few times. And then reread the sender's email again and again. I'm not even sure I want to open this fucking email since I'm 99.99% certain I know who sent me the damn thing. I groan internally and take another swig of my chilled, shitty wine, praying vehemently to Abraham that I'm wrong, that it's just a coincidence.

I scroll down to read the rest.

 **~hey joo boy**

That's it. No long hate speech, no prattling off insane demands in return for his silence. Just a hello. And a racial slur.

My fingers hover over the keys. Should I response? Do I even dare to open that door? I could just delete the email, block the sender and act like I never saw it. And then I just avoid Cartman for the rest of his sordid stay in Los Angeles. Which might be a little difficult since he's working the defensive side of one of the biggest cases in my career.

 _Shit._

I type out my response quickly, read it back to myself again, and then inhale another drink of wine. His reply is almost instantaneous.

~What do you want, fatass?

 **~fuk u kahl.**

 **~cant i just ask about my friend**

 **~?**

I snort and practically smash my keys typing back. A minute passes, and then my computer dings as an alert to Cartman's reply again.

~No, you can't. Leave me alone.

 **~dam joo boy u have a bigger stick up ur ass then ur dumb boss**

Begrudgingly, I chuckle slightly.

~Your grammar sucks. I'm amazed you made it through law school.

~And you don't know what I do on weekends.

 **~lolol im just that kewl**

 **~ & ur rite **

**~but i can guess fag(;**

I don't know why I sent that line about my weekends; it literally is none and never will be any of Cartman's business.

But I still find myself suppressing an annoyed smile.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** Thank you so much to everyone who has read this story and a special thanks to my wonderful reviewers - your words of encouragement rock and really help motivate me for the next chapter.


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's note: Okay I know I'm literally the worst and I take 5ever to update. I'm so sorry! But thank you so much to all the readers, reviewers, and followers. You guys help keep me motivated.**

Chapter 3: Maybe Time Will Fuck Off

 _"Fuck!" I curse loudly and kick the side of the school building again. Craig's words are still dancing through my head – "faggot, loser, queer!" Rumors can be a dangerous thing, and ever since elementary school, Craig has been sensitive about them. And about homosexuality, which you might think would be a separate issue, though I'm not too sure it is._

 _It's not like Craig was really a target for bullying, and hell, it's not like I really am either, but still. I had heard from Kenny that the rumors were going around again: Craig's supposedly gay. The moment he told me I had felt my chest seize up in what I had convinced myself was only sympathy, not empathy. I swear, not empathy._

 _The words, "so what?" were nearly out of my mouth before I could stop them._

 _I stop kicking the side of the building long enough to see the pile of white chalky stucco forming at my feet. My chest is heaving with every breath I'm sucking in – it's like I just can't get enough air. My throat hurts, and thick tears start to well in my eyes, blurring everything around me into a shaded nothingness._

 _High school fucking sucks._

 _I could see it in my mind's eye still, like it was branded inside my eyelids. Craig's tense and broad shoulders, drawing even tighter as my gloved hand landed on his back. I had only wanted to…apologize, maybe, commiserate even. For a split second, Craig's face was soft, open, and vulnerable in all the ways I had been hoping he'd be._

 _"Faggots," Clyde snickered in passing. It only took one word._

 _Craig's face closed like a steel trap as he spit lowly at me, "Don't touch me, you fucking queer. Just because you're a fucking gay-ass loser doesn't make me one too."_

 _And I just stood there and took it, all of my snarky wit just up and gone. I remembered all those times that I had yelled and crusaded and argued and yet, and yet._

 _Nothing came out._

 _I had only turned and walked away, feeling the eyes of all my classmates on my retreating form. I could even imagine Stan's face, confused, concerned, but not making a move to stop me. So I left, hiding like a coward behind the auditorium, waiting for the final bell to ring._

 _My breath is starting to slow and finally, my foot is starting to really fucking hurt. I feel like an idiot. I curse loudly again and run a cold hand over my face._

 _"I didn't think pussy little pacifists believed in cussing."_

 _Black combat boots come around the corner, scuffed and slow and making my stomach drop. Every step is so careful, like he's stalking prey. That's certainly what it feels like._

 _"Cartman," I groan and let my heavy eyes slide shut, leaning on my forearms against the wall. I hear myself sigh, "just don't right now, okay?"_

 _I hear a rustle of clothing and, unable to help myself, I peer over my shoulder at him, who's now standing behind me, several feet of space between me and him. Strangely, the distance is unsettling – usually Cartman loves to be up in my face. His face is unreadable. Those dark eyes are just staring, smoldering. Maybe with hate. I'm never sure._

 _"If I call you a kike, you lose your shit. But Craig calls you a fag, and you just pussy out?" Cartman chuckles bitterly. "If I'd known that would actually get your little Jew-panties in a knot, I would have been calling you that every day."_

 _He trails off and shifts his weight from combat boot to combat boot, waiting for me to respond._

 _I wait a beat and then say slowly, "You_ have _called me a fag, fatass. A lot."_

 _He arches one dark brow at me._

 _"Then why the fuck does it matter now?" he asks._

 _Just to fill the silence, I say, "I don't know."_

. . . . .

Morning comes too early – but when you're used to getting up everyday at least by 6:00 AM, it's a bit disorienting to wake up still sprawled on your couch, still wearing yesterday's suit which is now wrinkled beyond all hope, still tasting last night's cheap wine in your mouth and feeling it pounding behind your eyes.

Instead of instantly being greeted by my stucco ceiling, I find myself staring at my still open laptop, screen now darkened after having died. How long had I been on it?

Then I remember, in pieces at first, and then it all rushes back in.

Cartman.

We had been talking, _chatting_ , via email. God, who even does that anymore? I can't remember the last time I sent an email for a personal reason – _your work is your personal life,_ a small voice chimes in the back of my head. The voice sounds suspiciously like Cartman.

I groan and sit up, bracing myself for the somersaults my stomach decides to do, and all I can register behind my painful headache is that the entire bottle of wine is gone, and that my living room is an absolute mess. Despite feeling fragmented, disjointed, my mind churns over last night again and again, like what I usually do with my cases. I lean back into my plush couch with a sigh.

Of course, we didn't discuss anything of importance – I remember that much. I still know nothing about his life before now, where he went to college, where he's lived all this time, how he afforded it all. Not that Cartman isn't smart – in fact, I might bet that he paid most of his schooling with scholarships – but he has never struck me as the studious, or buckle-down type.

But.

It has almost been a decade, I remind myself. And he lost all of that weight. Boy, did he. The image of Cartman turning to face me for the first time again flashes like a light bulb in my mind. His well-muscled back under his fitted suit jacket, his defined jaw, those sharp amber eyes, and perfectly styled, yet softly mousy hair. If anything, though, his good looks only make me more anxious – there's no way that this is a perfect coincidence.

Nothing with Cartman is ever a coincidence.

I finally drag myself off the couch and off to my room to face the day. A pure black suit seems like the only appropriate choice for this awful Tuesday – black jacket, trim black pants, and even a black button up. I finally settle on my favorite deep green tie. Justin always tells me that it makes my eyes look fantastic.

Overall looking pretty good, I can't help but admire myself in the full-length mirror in my room. Cartman's not the only one who grew up. I've stayed in good shape too, and even dare I say, have embraced my 'gayness' as Justin calls it. The best part of the black suit is that at least my boss will like it.

. . . .

"Look alive today, kid," are the first words out of Gabel's mouth. I'm bending partially over the desk in my office, rearranging my papers, when his voice startles me. Papers go flying across the floor.

"With all due respect sir, I'm getting you a bell," I squint at Mr. Gabel, who surprisingly almost smiles at me. Almost. He hovers in what I would call uncertainty but I don't think the legendary Trent Gabel has ever hesitated to say anything in his whole life.

"This won't be a problem, will it?" he asks as I start to snag the fallen papers.

I pause, and glance back up at him. Now Gabel is really frowning at me and it makes my stomach lurch in response. It's the same look my mom used to give me, disappointed and apprehensive of my answer.

There's no point in asking him what he's referring to. Gabel, if nothing else, is easily readable. Obviously his concern is me and whatever my relation to Cartman is. It certainly didn't look good, me pretending to not know Cartman while the fucker straight up outted me. Gabel isn't stupid; he definitely knows I'm gay. So what, my mind churns unhelpfully, he assumes Cartman is a rival or ex-lover maybe? That'd be something.

"No sir," I say in a clipped tone, pretending to be absorbed in re-rearranging my paperwork.

"Good," Gabel grunts back. I'm still waiting for him to leave so I can keep working on _my_ cases. So when after a few moments of awkward silence, I'm somehow not surprised to look up and see his intense stare still lingering on me.

"Mr. Gabel, I –," he cuts my off with a brisk wave of his hand.

"I don't pry into my colleagues personal lives," the elder man says slowly, deliberately, "but I also cannot stress the importance of this case."

I swallow thickly, unable to look away from his piercing gaze.

"Julio Salazar _cannot_ walk," Gabel continues fiercely. "Our jobs are difficult, and it's no question that people demand the impossible from us. But we do good work day in and day out to help protect this city from scum like Salazar."

"I know, sir," I sigh, resting my palms against the cool wood of my desk.

His pause is as loud as thunder.

"Sometimes this job asks things of us that we may not find suitable, but it is a means to the proper end," Gabel says in that slow voce again, enunciating every word. He holds our eye contact for only a breath longer and then looks away. I jolt, the spell broken.

The older man's demeanor does a complete one-eighty, all that tension gone from his lithe body. That near-smile is back again, as if it had never left his face as he walks casually toward the open door.

"Why don't you ask that friend of yours to go get some coffee? It would do you some good," Gabel shrugs on his way out. He partially turns, and says softly as if almost to himself, "Sharp suit, kid."

The frosted glass door closes with a barely audible click.

. . . . .

I'm back in the park outside of my work, sitting on the same bench that I always sit at for lunch, only this time I actually not eating. My cell phone makes an audible creak under the pressure of my grip as it rings. It feels like each ring is a lifetime apart.

"Kyle!" Kenny picks up the phone, bright and cheery as usual. "You're about three months and twenty-nine days early for our next phone call. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Cut the crap," I snap impatiently. "You knew that Cartman was coming here didn't you?"

Kenny's end of the line goes silent and for a horrible second, I'm sure that he's hung up on me.

It began dawning on me, as I had slumped down heavily in my chair after Gabel left. I had racked my brain for what exactly he was getting at – I mean, I'm not stupid, but it somehow didn't seem right to try and cozy up to Cartman to get case details out from under him. There's no doubt that's what Gabel was implying. But then I had remembered that impulse from earlier in the morning, my unease about Cartman's very sudden presence in my life. No, this couldn't be a coincidence. And in hindsight, Kenny had seemed not nearly surprised enough that Cartman had somehow run into me. Not even Kenny knows what I do or where I live.

"He went to law school, Kyle," Kenny finally deadpans. "He grew up and became a lawyer. And he ran into you, who is also a lawyer. Pretty much makes sense to me."

A twang of guilt echoes in my chest.

"I'm not accusing you of anything, Ken," I say quickly, "but if you know why Cartman is here –"

"And where exactly is 'here', Kyle?" My name sounds like a curse when he says it.

The call ends without a word, and I'm actually not sure who hung up first, him or me.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4: _Lines in the Sand_

 _It had been two months since I'd seen Cartman – he'd gone off to some dumb summer camp or something right before our last year of high school was going to start. It was that slow time of year, lethargic mid-August where everyone goes on vacation right before the kids get shipped back off to school, though it was somehow magically still snowing in South Park. Stan was gone on some stupid Disney cruise and Kenny…probably too busy with his lukewarm kiddy pool in his front yard to bother._

 _Or maybe I was just in a shit mood._

 _My dad and mom had just left a day ago to visit her Alma matter for some dumb ceremony – who even does that? It's like a high school reunion but worse because more of these idiots probably peaked in college. Everything is downhill from college, I wanted to tell my mom._

 _I haven't even gone to college yet but I knew it._

 _Ike was off at cousin Kyle's house for the duration and I was blessedly left alone for the weekend. What a relief to just be able to surf the Internet without constantly being paranoid about who's glancing over my shoulder, checking if I was studying, being a good little straight Jew._

 _Pathetically enough I had been lounging in my bed the whole day, just watching stupid videos. It wasn't until I noticed the sun starting to rise again, casting the world in that sugary green glow did I finally move my stupid ass._

 _Thank god Harbucks was open early for crazy people like me, and workaholics._

 _I had just slipped out my front door and began my walk when I realized whose house I'd be walking past. I had walked past it so many times over my childhood, though the visits became less and less frequent the older we got._

 _Eric Cartman had admittedly drifted outside my reach, slowly but surely. We still bantered, we still yelled at each other hotly about political issues, but the video gaming and small moments of peace had slowly trickled away with time._

 _I paused briefly outside of his dark house, looking at it with nostalgia. For a moment, I could see through the window me, Stan, Kenny and Cartman all splayed about his living room, eating cheesy poofs and laughing._

 _There was a pull, like gravity or a magnet, yanking me closer to the house. Belated I realized that the side gate to the Cartman's backyard was open and, shooting one guilty glance at the blackened windows, followed the pull. I slipped through the narrow gap between the fence and gate with barely a sound – thank god I'm a skinny fuck. The omnipresent snow crunched under my boots, thinning thanks to the slow summer heat, but it stubbornly stayed put almost year round._

 _Cartman's backyard was just like I remembered it – completely bare. Snow smothered his lawn with only telltale green patches struggling to touch the crisp air. How does time go by so fast?_

 _I was barely seventeen and I felt old as shit, weighed down by too much crap._

 _"_ _Breaking and entering is a crime, Jewrat."_

 _I stifled a smile that tugged at my lips as I turned to face him._

 _Cartman was the same as ever, pudgy and annoyed and barely dressed. His sweats and shoes had clearly been hastily pulled on and a thick wool coat covered his pajama top._

 _"_ _I thought people who went to fat camp were supposed to get skinny," I teased, my words billowing out of my mouth in thin wisps. Those amber eyes shone a bit brighter at me as Cartman began to wake up more._

 _I would have never said it aloud but I knew that Cartman knew me._

 _And not like he knew all my weaknesses or creepy shit like my favorite sleeping position or blood type, which honestly he probably knew all that and more at one point in his life. But no – he could read me, I knew it._

 _Something in him recognized why I was here, and he probably knew that there was a golf ball-sized lump in my throat at the thought._

 _"_ _Do you remember that one time when you tackled Kenny?" I chuckled, not wanting Cartman to say anything. "He knocked over your snowman and you were_ so _pissed at him."_

 _Those liquid whiskey eyes burned back at me and he said nothing._

 _"_ _And then – and then Kenny started making a snow-angel while you were on top of him, trying to give him a black eye."_

 _I tipped backwards and landed softly in the dusty snow on my back._

 _I heard rather than saw Cartman stomp over to me._

When did we stop being friends? _I wondered._ Were we ever really friends?

 _Slowly Cartman lowered himself down next to me and I almost told him not to bother, that he would get soaked like me. But I kept my mouth firmly shut and tried to swallow again around that lump._

God, why am I being such a pussy?

 _"_ _How was camp?" I finally managed once Cartman had settled down next to me wordlessly. His silence stretched on for a long moment before he finally shrugged his shoulders, little snow banks forming around his neck._

 _"_ _Eh, kinda sucked," he said, voice still rough from sleep. Maybe he just knew I was in one of those moods, not that he was ever around anymore. My own bitterness at his absence surprised me. I stared blankly up at the lightening green pink sky, honey orange streaks slowly emerging._

 _I felt the warm press of Cartman's hand against my own as he firmly placed a cigarette into my relaxed palm. This time I didn't stop the smile. We briefly stirred enough to both light up our respective Marlboros before settling down again. I was freezing and soaked straight through my pants all the way to my boxers, but I somehow didn't care._

 _We smoked our cigs down to ash as the sun slowly brought us a new day._

* * *

When I see Cartman, it's like a bucket of cold water.

Ice water that burns all the way down my spine and pools uncomfortably in my stomach and dress shoes. He's standing just two people ahead of me at the Harbucks that I frequent like clockwork. Every Tuesday and Thursday, sometimes Fridays if it's been one of _those_ kind of weeks.

I stare holes into his broad, suit-clothed back.

 _He needs to get bigger suit jackets_ , I think angrily. Just seeing his trim form pisses me off all over again. And he just _fucking stands there_ , looking at the menu like some goddamn normal person. A weirdly somewhat attractive normal person, but still.

He probably knew I would be here, I convince myself.

He gets to the front of the line and, infuriatingly enough, just buys a bottle of water. The cashier, a young pretty college student smiles cheekily at him, flashing her pearly whites at him.

"Is that all you need?" I hear her flirt.

Cartman leans in closer over the counter and says something to her in a low voice, prompting a light laugh from the young woman. She nods shyly as he slides her cash.

I feel like Sherlock Holmes, trying to decipher every little movement.

Suddenly, Cartman turns around to leave and those amber eyes instantly lock with mine. I expect a smirk or something from him, something to show me that he knows I've been watching him and that he's tickled at how suspicious I am of him still, even after all these years. But nothing happens – our eye contact is broken within seconds and he just walks right by me, close enough that his cologne still lingers for a moment.

And then it's over. I hear the faint chime of the door as Cartman walks out, not even acknowledging my presence. I reach the front of the line in a daze and order my typical small nonfat, light foam, vanilla latte. Appropriately gay, is what Justin calls it – inordinately expensive is what I would say.

My credit card just touches the counter when the cashier holds a hand up to stop me.

"Your drink has already been paid for," she flashes that too wide grin at me.

"By who?" I ask dumbly.

She just points over my shoulder and I stupidly turn. Cartman smirks from beyond the glass in what some people might think is an innocent expression. _Ha-ha,_ he bought your drink – what a gag. For a moment, white hot anger rushes through me.

 _How dare he be here?_ I fume internally. _How dare he show up and act like we're back in high school, the fucking shithead._

I turn back to the waitress with what I'm sure is a tight, slightly manic smile. I grind out, "Well that was nice of him."

The cashier just nods enthusiastically, but her gaze is off, focused on Cartman behind me. I feel like the whole world has lost its damn mind – or is maybe just conspiring against me, I think angrily. But it's okay. Cartman can have his fun. This case will be over and we'll move on. He'll go back to wherever the fuck he belongs and I will move on with my own fucking life.

I wait for my coffee, feeling two holes burning into my back from Cartman's stare as I reach for my cup. I know he's watching me, why wouldn't he be? I take a few deep breaths while I pretend to add sugar to my latte. Inner peace, I chant. Inner peace.

Cartman is still waiting outside when I walk out but he's leaning against the building, facing out onto the street casually, innocently.

"Did you follow me here?" I deadpan, arching an eyebrow.

He grins cheekily, his voice cloyingly sweet, "Why no, _Kahl_. I believe I was standing in line first."

"So?" I snap.

"So maybe you're the one following me," he drops the high-pitched voice, replying just as flatly as me. I frown back at him, and then glance at my watch.

"Whatever dude," I say. "I need to get to work so as much as I would just _love_ to continue talking to you, I have better shit to do."

As I walk away, proud of myself for mostly keeping my composure, I hear Cartman mutter a "whatever" back at me. For a second, I'm triumphant.

Until a voice in my head, sounding suspiciously like Trent Gabel and Kenny, pipes up.

 _Get some coffee – a means to a proper end – He grew up and became a laywer…pretty much makes sense to me._ Gabel appears like an unwelcomed specter in my mind's eye, his dark suit and sharp features. His falsely light smile when he last walked out of my office. Kenny gripping his cellphone as he hangs up on me.

 _Shit_.

I groan and turn around, only a few feet away from Cartman who hasn't moved a muscle. And there I am, back peddling like a fucking idiot until I'm right in front of the asshole. My stomach lurches with what might be guilt when I take a closer look at his new yet familiar face.

Those amber eyes look tired, tight around the edges with faintly dark rings underneath. His hair was not quite as elegantly coiffed as I remember it being the other day. His face, pinched minutely in annoyance, smoothes out into a look of indifference, a stark relief of his expression. I almost can't remember what I thought he used to look like.

"I'm getting lunch at 12:30 sharp – you know where my office is," I exhale it in a rush. If Cartman is surprised by the impromptu invitation, he hides it well. Instead, he just mimics my earlier look, arching one eyebrow back at me.

Without another word, I turn and walk away.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** Hi, I'm back again with another chapter - sorry I know I have been total shit at uploading stuff and I'm mostly writing just for fun and as a way to relax. I really appreciate everyone who has read, reviewed, favorited, and followed this story! Thank you all so much! Hopefully I'll be back with another update for ya'll soon!


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